


Les Amants de Paris

by fishingclocks



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, The Aristocats (1970)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, France - Freeform, Language, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingclocks/pseuds/fishingclocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer of 1911, Marco finds himself and his adopted siblings alone in the middle of the French countryside, with no way to return home, and no idea how they got there.</p><p>Jean hates France, France hates Jean, and they're both content to leave it that way, until brown eyes and freckles like stars put that mutual loathing to the test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Le Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> or "this is the madness this ship has wrought on my psyche: come and watch me burn the world," or according to my word docs, "frenchyfrench." i was inspired to write this monstrosity by the glorious [chosenchu](http://thechosenchu.tumblr.com/post/124289607145/ive-been-watching-disney-movies-lately-so-here) , who so graciously allowed me to play with her ideas. we'll see if i do them justice.
> 
> title shamelessly stolen from the song of the same title by edith piaf, who serves as inspiration for this _entire_ fic.

_Franche-Comté_ _,_ _May 31, 1911_

 

`

 

Of all the places in all the countries in all the goddamn world, Jean reckons that Paris is the most romanticized of them all; he also thinks it’s the least deserving of that infatuation. The city with the world wrapped around its little finger: ‘The City of Lights,’ ‘The City of Love.” _That’s a hoot,_ Jean thinks bitterly, sinking further into his seat. _That place is a poison. There’s a damn good reason I’ve stayed away for so long, and it isn’t the smell._

That baby from three rows back starts crying again, and Jean grimaces and crosses his arms. _Speaking of smells,_ he grouses.

 

The train car rattles and shakes with every second it moves, taking its passengers with it at every lurch. Jean made the comparison to sardines when they first started moving—trapped and packed uncomfortably close together in a tin can—but now the thought only makes his stomach flip unpleasantly.

 

_I couldn’t even eat a rare steak right now._ The man with the gristly beard sneezes directly onto Jean’s shoulder. He grits his teeth. _I’d be better off with those pigs in Romania. The only thing that could make this worse is **fleas**_. A quick look at his present company, and Jean gulps, pulling his newsy cap further down his forehead nervously. _Mary, Mother of God, **please**_ _not fleas again._

“God, son, you gonna upchuck?”

 

Jean is startled out of his thoughts by the all-too-familiar sound of French rasped out a wizened mouth at his right, the lilting language almost sounding like a parody of itself. _How long has it been since I’ve heard this?_

 

Looking to his right, Jean’s eyes shift to the right, landing on the woman sitting there, next to the window—a wizened old broad with a brown cotton dress and a burgundy bonnet concealing what is obviously a distinct lack of hair all piled on top of a skeletal form and beady, staring eyes—and he blinked dumbly. “Wh-What?”

 

The word surprises Jean, even coming from his own mouth. Had he just spoken… _French?_

 

_It has to have been more than… ten years? It shouldn’t feel so **easy** , should it?_

 

The old woman, however, is less than impressed by his intelligent response. “ _Are you going to be sick._ You’re so green I nearly mistook your skin for that dreadful hat of yours! Dear Lord, child, stop looking at me so dumbly! What are you, American?”

 

_Welcome back to France, Jean Kirschtein,_ he snarks sourly, the sound of that old bird’s reprimands still ringing in his ears. _Did you miss it? Because it sure as hell hasn’t missed you._


	2. Chapitre Un

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, well, _well_ , if it isn't my favorite customer!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let us start this thing, shall we?
> 
> lavish love upon the gorgeous [chosenchu](http://thechosenchu.tumblr.com/post/124289607145/ive-been-watching-disney-movies-lately-so-here) for allowing this to be possible.
> 
> *all the thanks in the world to Kaizou, who pointed out very helpful things about my poor french skills, _oui oui hon hon hon._

Armin is worried again, Marco can tell. Mouth clamped into a firm little line, he’s trying not to let any of them know it—Marco feels a rush of affection towards the little blond next to him, but it’s bittersweet, to say the least. Once upon a time, Armin would have immediately confided every single one of the fears running through his mind, and Marco would have scooped him up in his arms, hushing and holding ‘ _Armin, you know I would_ never _let Vikimama turn you to stone, darling.’_

_(‘It’s_ Vichama _, Marco,’ he would giggle, because of course Armin has scared himself by reading Incan mythology, and Marco would apologize and say ‘Oh, forgive me, sir, Vik_ ar _mama,’ just to hear him let out that sweet giggle.)_

 

But those wide blue eyes are staring straight ahead, bony hand gripping Marco’s like a vice, and he hasn’t said a word this entire morning.

 

Not since…

 

 _That’s enough of that_ , Marco growls at himself, gritting his teeth and setting his eyes back on the cobbled path ahead of him, winding ahead of them into the morning fog through the narrow enclosure of buildings on either side.

 

Funny. The city has always felt so _big_ to Marco; it’s always towered over him and it’s always been _there_ and _looking,_ but now? Marco almost feels like he’s suffocating. The walls are bearing in on him, Armin’s hand is clutching at his, and there’s something clawing at the inside of his throat, trying to reach through him and collapse his ribs in on themselves.

 

He _aches,_ and he doesn’t know _why._

 

 _(Marco_ knows _why. Treacherous images of amber eyes, dirt lingering in the lines of crinkling at the corner of a playful wink, words whispered under moonbeams; words that mean nothing, and words that mean_ everything _, they all tug at the edges of his mind, but he ignores them because he Is Not Thinking about them.)_

 

“Are we _there_ yet, Marco?” Eren whines from behind Armin; he would certainly be trailing even farther behind them if the blond’s other hand wasn’t entwined with his, pulling Eren unfailingly along like a boneless doll.

 

 “Eren, if we were there, wouldn’t you know?” he asks very patiently.

 

Eren sighs, “But I thought we were nearly _there_!”

 

“We are, Eren. Look.” Marco is about to reply when he hears Mikasa interrupts from her usual place, shadowing just behind him. He turns to look down at her. She’s pointing out into the fog, dark eyes seeming to pierce through it and just see _everything._

 

But he sees it then, and he remembers, and the relief that floods Marco’s chest in that one moment almost _(almost, but not quite; never quite)_ drowns out the hollow there.

 

Marco had been so afraid that he’d gotten them hopelessly lost, that he’d doomed them when they were so close to the end. But there it is, just in front of them and nearly unrecognizable in the gloom of the morning, but _there._

 

_Le Titan Crieur._

 

`

 

_16 June 1911; Paris_

 

`

 

“Now no running, remember? And no fighting?” Marco stands over Eren, Mikasa, and Armin, the trio staring up at him with innocence thick in their stares.

 

“Of _course_ not, Marco!” Eren says, batting his eyelashes.

 

If this is supposed to reassure him, then it’s doing a very poor job of it.

 

 _Just until Erwin is finished with his business_ , he reminds himself tiredly.

 

They are standing in out the busy street, life buzzing all around them, and Marco is standing ramrod straight, and Mikasa definitely notices the tension in his shoulders, because she takes one of his hands gently in hers, the small smile she gives him almost _patronizing._

 

“We’ll be good,” she says quietly, “We promise.”

 

Marco stares at her for a moment, sable eyes unwavering in his gaze, until he lets out a sigh of defeat. “Fine. Go in.”

 

Whooping with joy, Eren grabs the hands of his partners-in-crime, and runs into the shop, despite Armin’s gentle reminder that they _really aren’t supposed to be running, Eren_ -

 

“My, what- _lovely_ children you have.”

 

Marco is taken slightly off-kilter by the new voice appearing at his side. He turns, heart beating and old habits itching at his fingertips claw their way up his throat only to be smothered with a _fakesoveryfake_ smile dripping with honey. Grinning over-exuberantly—both of them have masks up, at least; Marco has found that people usually are, even here in this City of Light, just of a different kind—the man in front of him tips his bowler cap as a cordial gesture and says, “Grant Taylor, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

 _An English name if I ever heard one,_ Marco decides, _and his pronunciation_ is _atrocious._

Goodness.

 

He berates himself, _The man just scared you, Marco, stop being so… French._

 

“Good to meet you, Mr. Taylor,” he says, and if Marco flourishes his pronunciation just the _tiniest_ bit—well, who’s counting?

 

That fake, fake, plaster grin widens, and Marco half-wonders if his face will start cracking around that big, bushy mustache nestled on his upper lip.

 

“Well then, will we?” Grant Taylor asks, indicating the door—he supposes that the man was trying to say ‘shall we,’ and it serves him _right_ for trying to transpose silly English idioms like that—and Marco tilts his head.

 

“Of course. After you?”

 

“Oh no, after you. I _insist._ ” Like that should earn him a medal. Marco reminds himself that he needs to be _nice_ , _don’t give them any ammunition they don’t already have_ , and walks through the door.

 

That unsettlingly loud gong rings resoundingly through the store as he enters, and again Marco is struck by the sheer _size_ stuffed into a small corner shop; it would either take stark madness or utter _genius_ to have it done, and knowing the owner like he does, Marco isn’t sure which it is-

 

“Well, well, _well_ , if isn’t my favorite customer!” Poking her head out from under the counter, Hange grins in that toothy, feral way of hers, customary goggles hiding what Marco doesn’t doubt is a wicked gleam in her eye. She is surrounded by her creations, toys and knick knacks of all shapes and sizes, most half-dismantled, and it makes her just that much more terrifying. Marco smiles back weakly, but that attempt is quickly forgotten when Hange makes a _leap_ over the wooden bulk of the counter. “And you brought _friends_!”

 

Grant Taylor’s mask is down, his expression is a mix between the one Eren made the first time he bit into a lemon when Armin convinced him it was an orange, and nearly unbridled fear. Part of Marco wants to leave him like that, but he quickly reminds himself that _you don’t actually have a real reason to_ dislike _the man, beyond the fact that he is English_ , and so he comes to his rescue.

 

“Right, I nearly forgot,” he says with a graceful nod of the head towards Hange, like he had intended to do this all along. “Ms. Hange, this is Grant Taylor; I had the pleasure of meeting him outside of your shop. Mr. Grant Taylor, this is the owner of the establishment, Ms. Hange.”

 

Hange is grinning broadly, and Marco is grateful that at least _one_ of them is being honest about their emotions.

 

Masks slipping solidly into place, Grant Taylor tips his cap and murmurs ‘ _Pleasure, madame_ ,’ and _almost_ manages to hide his distaste.

 

“Marco, Armin is telling stories again.” It’s almost fascinating, what good timing Mikasa has, materializing out of nowhere to take Marco’s almost comically-larger hand in her own—Marco makes a note to thank her for it later, though she probably won’t even know what for. “You always like Armin’s stories.”

 

He smiles down at her, affection flooding his gut and he squeezes her hand, when-

 

“Ah, yours like stories too? My little darling Angelina has all sorts of silly ramblings, bless her soul.”

 

Moment of peace effectively shattered.

 

 

Grant Taylor comes to kneel in front of Mikasa, and Marco’s hand tightens around hers for an entirely different reason.

 

“My, what a pretty thing you are!” Winking up at Marco, Grant Taylor says, “And so _exotic_ , too!” like she is an _expensive pet_ , and Marco doesn’t know if he can refrain from punching this man right in the jaw-

 

“Marco!” Hange yells, much louder than necessary, breaking Marco’s thoughts from those of _murder_ , and puts both hands very forcibly on his shoulders. “I think Armin and Eren are in the back of the shop at the moment, and you’re _missing_ what I’m sure is a _lovely_ story, why don’t you and Mikasa just, run along down there. I have _business_ to attend to.”

 

With a last shove, Hange sends them off, and the last Marco sees of Grant Taylor, he is looking on very confused as a certain shop owner’s smile takes on a knife’s edge.

 

`

 

“It’s in Australia, Eren, can you see it- there! I think it’s… in the middle? I don’t know _where_ , I guess, but-“

 

“Is it _real_ , Armin?”

 

“Of _course_ it is! My book said so!”

 

“But-  A pink lake?”

 

Marco watches them bicker fondly, still holding onto Mikasa’s hand and trying to remind himself that the remaining anger towards Grant Taylor is completely justified ( _savage child going to rob him blind never fit in bring_ shame _to the Smith name_ ), letting the sound of their little voices relax the furrow between his brow and the taught muscles in his shoulders.

 

Hange, by either miraculous happenstance or mysterious foreknowledge—and honestly both ideas are frightening—was right about their location; the two are tucked into a far, back corner of the shop, ignoring all of the whirlygigs and toys around them for a large globe, lacquered and richly colored with a frame of cherry oak and _undoubtedly_ magnificent but a _globe_ all the same.

 

Is _this_ where they always disappear to here?

 

 _Oh, of course they do_.

 

“I brought Marco!” Mikasa says as she lets go of his hand, going over to stand next to the globe. Eren’s grin is almost blinding when he whirls around; Armin is blushing.

 

“Marco! You found us!” he chirps, so _happy_ it almost steals Marco’s breath away.

 

Tugged over by hands so _eager_ , Marco looks down at the globe while Eren chatters away. “Do you like it? Armin found it a long long time ago, and it’s a _secret_ , but it isn’t a secret now because _you_ know about it but that’s okay because you’re _you_ and you won’t _tell_ anyone, Marco, _will_ you-?”

 

“No, no, of course I won’t tell, Eren, but- but can you quiet down just a little? We’re not outside.” Marco kneels down carefully in the middle of them, noting the almost timid look in Armin’s eyes, and they won’t _quite_ meet his own-

 

“Isn’t it _pretty_ , Marco?” Mikasa murmurs, and Marco remembers himself, but before he can reply, a deep voice behind them murmurs, “It’s lovely, angels.”

 

Just like that, all of their eyes _light_ up. Armin cries ‘ _Erwin_!’ overjoyed, like they hadn’t just seen each other that morning.

 

Their guardian is met with a flood of bony limbs and toothy grins pressing themselves against him and no doubt digging into his sides so uncomfortably-

 

And Marco doesn’t think Erwin has ever looked happier.

 

`

 

Marco leaves the shop with all three of them mulling around his legs, impatient to be home but not wanting to leave and jabbing relentlessly at one another as tired children are wont to do. Erwin is hanging back, just for a moment, exchanging a few words with Hange, and Mike is waiting outside with the carriage.

 

Eren clambers in excitedly, already jabbering to their driver and informing him on pink lakes, and Mikasa follows close behind, but Armin, sending a longing glance back at the shop, refuses.

 

“Are we gonna _leave_ Erwin?” he whispers, obviously very worried. Smiling fondly at him, Marco pets a hand through Armin’s hair reassuringly.

 

“No, Armin, we aren’t. Erwin just has a little more business to attend to, that’s all.”

 

He looks down, scuffs his shoes against the cobbled stones of the street below, and murmurs a disappointed ‘oh.’

 

Marco manages to coax him into the carriage (‘ _I’ll even let you take a book to bed if you do!’ ‘But Marco, I do that already.’ ‘…Just get into the carriage, Armin.’_ ), but Armin’s wandering eyes won’t leave the storefront of _Le Titan Crieur_ , his hands wringing together.

 

Blessedly, Mike seems to notice, because if there is one person who can manage to distract Armin from missing Erwin, it’s him. He grins, and the expression brightens up his otherwise slightly-intimidating face. Armin squirms in his seat trying to hold back a smile.

 

“Eren was just telling me all about your pink lakes, little master!” A wink and a nod. “’Sounds almost too fantastic to believe.”

 

Armin buries his face into Marco’s side.

 

It’s four more minutes, if the clock tower across the street is to be believed, before Erwin finally exits the store, and by now Eren has climbed into Mike’s lap, handling the reins and making the horses bray in irritation.

 

“Erwin, look, I’m _driving_!

 

Laughing easily, Erwin ruffles the boy’s hair—Eren’s cry of indignation is drowned out by a particularly miffed neigh from Froo Froo—and settles down in between Mikasa and Armin gracefully.

 

Over his shoulder, Mike asks “Anywhere else, sir?” though he more than likely already knows the answer.

 

Erwin looks down fondly at his young charges—it is a look that Marco knows so very very well, one that makes something in his chest tighten and his back straighten just a fraction more just to have it directed at him one more time—and sighs; it’s only then that Marco realizes just how _tired_ Erwin seems. “No, Mike, I do believe that will be all.”

 

It’s all the indication Mike needs to set the carriage off towards the manor; towards home. When Marco looks over at Erwin, that exhaustion he had noticed only seems to have grown, and he seems, in that moment, very undeniably sad.

 

They are clattering down the loud, busy streets of Paris when Marco reaches over to take his guardian’s hand in his, and Erwin almost seems surprised by the gesture, but he doesn’t recoil ( _like he does sometimes, Marco has seen him, when the nights are long and painful memories are reemerging from their place so far down, darkening blue eyes that are always so bright, so_ alive _, and he hasn’t been afraid of Erwin in years, but god can he fear_ for _him_ -) , so there it stays, and-

 

And Marco can almost convince himself that he is content.

 

`

 

_present day_

 

`

 

Silence has fallen over the three children when Marco catches sight of it there, nestled in a row of comfortably lush manors, with fences of cast iron and trees planted on either side of the street, trimmed and pruned and with leaves all the same rich green.

 

That morning sun streaming into the tall front window, that delicate, swirling arch over the front gate: Armin gasps, no doubt having caught sight of it himself, and tears away from Marco’s side to sprint for the manor.

 

Mikasa and Eren aren’t far behind, yelling in joy.

 

“We’re _home_!” he hears Eren cry, and Marco can’t help a small smile.

 

He’s happy, of course, of _course_ , but-

 

The word ‘home-‘

 

“ _A home is where the heart is_ ,” his mother used to say ( _dilapidated boards falling from rafters above their heads while the slept, the smell of mold infiltrating everything that it touched, thin doors and even thinner walls so he could hear the noises at night when mama was working_ ), and Marco’s ridiculous, naïve, _treacherous_ heart can’t help but think that if that’s true, this isn’t his home anymore-

 

Marco grits his teeth and follows the children up to the front gate of the manor; his _home._

 

He will forget. He will move on.

 

It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.

 


	3. Chapitre Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they come back out again it’s through his fingers, spilling onto the ivories and staining them deep maroon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _and on the third week she rose again._ so sorry for the delay, school has me whipped, and not in the fun way.
> 
> warning for angst and the sads whoops
> 
> [chosenchu](http://thechosenchu.tumblr.com/post/124289607145/ive-been-watching-disney-movies-lately-so-here) is gorgeous and you need to worship her (i hear she's partial to blood sacrifices but red kool-aid works too)

 

When they reach the manor, the children disappear into the kitchens to ‘say hello’ to Nanaba, though Marco knows exactly what they’re up to. Still, he trusts that the cook won’t feed them anything he wouldn’t approve of, despite the fact that the three of them are very good at getting what they want.

 

Erwin thanks Mike for driving them—he receives a tip of the hat and a wink in return, and leaves him to care for the horses, walking up the steps to grand double-doors and gives them a mighty rap. When Marco has caught up with him, he tilts his head.

 

“Erwin, the doors are _never_ locked. Why-?”

 

“Knowing _Nile,”_ Erwin says, his smile very sad. Marco wants to ask what he means, wants to ask Erwin what is going on that has him looking so terribly sad—he knows what Erwin will say if he does; a pat on the shoulder, a grin just real enough to fool anyone but Marco, and “No need to worry yourself over this old man, Marco,” and Marco hates, _hates_ that answer for all how _awful_ it makes him feel—but heavy footfalls and a rattling of the door handle interrupt him before his mouth can even form the words, so Marco lets it go.

 

Creaking and groaning on their hinges, the doors swing open to reveal Nile himself, his suit pressed to perfection; back ramrod stiff and face to match.

 

Erwin of course grins widely and claps him on the shoulder, saying “Nile, my friend! Apologies for the hour, we encountered a delay. Thank you for the interest in the manor’s safety, old friend, but our doors are open to all, let’s keep them that way, yes?”

 

“Of course, sir,” Nile replies, staring straight ahead, but when Marco tries to slip by, his eyes follow him, and Marco tries his very best to ignore it.

 

Letting his feet lead him—anywhere but there, with those cold, calculating eyes watching, watching—Marco finds himself having climbed the stairs, standing in the doorway of the nursery. His favorite room in the entire house, it stands to reason that Marco would come here. The floors are paneled with hardwood, much like the rest of the house, but shaggy, bright rugs cover the floor and feel so comforting underneath bare feet, and an overstuffed, mustard-yellow chaise overlooks blocks that predate even him, and Mikasa’s doll, specially made by Nanaba when she first came to the manor, and her most prized possession. On the walls, delicate butterflies are flittering from flower to flower against a yellow background; the scene was obviously hand-painted, and if the sadly apparent fading is anything to go by, it was done a very long time ago. Maybe it had been Erwin’s, before it was passed on to him, and then to Armin, Eren, and Mikasa.

 

The old, well-lived feel is the reason Marco feels so at ease here, really. This little nursery has so many memories, both good and ones you might prefer to forget, but all of them carrying the distinctive weight of family, of belonging.

 

Marco steps carefully over any of the toys left scattered about the floor and Eren’s paints—given last Christmas as a means for Eren to express his emotions in a healthy manner other than fighting Mikasa or demolishing flowerbeds; Marco doesn’t think he has ever met anyone so not adept with the arts—until he reaches the piano. This, at least, is not so old. When Erwin had taken him in, Marco had told him of one of his mother, and how the thing he remembered most about her was sitting on her lap while she played, and how sometimes he could still hear her, and feel her heartbeat against his back. Within the month, men had come to their door, a gorgeous mahogany piano in tow, and Marco remembers breaking into tears at the sight of it.

 

Fingers brushing across blossoming flowers engraved into the fallboard, Marco laughs under his breath at the memory. Erwin had fretted over him awfully, worried he had overstepped his bounds in having it brought in.

 

Marco loves this piano.

 

Sitting at the bench, Marco puts his hands to the keys, savoring the silence before hammers hit string, closing his eyes and listening to the rustle of his own breath, to the persistent chickadee outside his window, and when he tries, Marco can hear her play, can hear the lilting melody of the lullabies she taught them, and his brothers’ voices swallowed up by years and years of this same silence. Now they all exist only in his memory.

 

Marco plays, and Marco remembers.

 

`

 

_Her dark skin and even darker hair are not enough to mask the shadows under amber eyes, and when she holds him her ribs push into his tight stomach and her thin, shaking fingers are so, so cold as they weakly attempt to comb through his matted hair; but her lips brush against the skin of his forehead, mouthing words in a language he can barely understand and the feeling of ‘Tranquillo, mio bambino, io sono qui, tranquillo…”-_

 

_Marco thinks that she is the most beautiful woman in the world._

 

`

 

When his fingers press down the keys (under, up an octave, three two one cross four three two) Marco feels the music as it curls up and around him, filling up the silence and suffocating it, driving it out so gently, painfully gently. Sharps and flats and accidentals flood the corners of the room and drive up the walls. They drip like paint; slow and hypnotic but deadly, the fumes are toxic, the memories the dredge up bubbling up his throat and replacing his blood with sixteenths and poco adagio and when they come back out again it’s through his fingers, spilling onto the ivories and staining them deep maroon.

 

`

 

_Little Russo, poor little Russo, is always so frightened, sometimes it’s hard for Marco to even bear. He presses up against Marco’s side for reassurance, apologizes in a whisper when their ankles inevitably clack together. But Marco curls an arm around his darling little brother’s shoulder, ‘Tranquillo, tranquillo, Russo, it didn’t even hurt,’ and it’s a lie, but how can he even discourage the bright, hopeful smile that curves across those pink little lips._

 

_Russo is honey-golden and fair, so different from him and Jemima and Michael and even Mami, but their eyes are the same, glowing like the gold of the band around Mami’s arm, and even though Ru is different, it fits him so well that Marco can’t imagine him any other way. It’s like asking the sun why it doesn’t try to look more like the moon; can’t it see it’s shining too brightly?_

 

_“Marco,” Russo says, “Why is Mami still talking to that man?”_

 

_From her corner, Jemima looks up and frowns. Michael, always silent, tilts her head back down at the floor with a gentle touch, and goes back to braiding her hair with clever fingers that are able to say so much, even if his mouth cannot._

 

_Marco looks down at Russo; tightens his hold just a little more, and says, “I don’t know, Russo.”_

 

_In the next room Mami screams._

 

_“Marco?”_

 

 _J_ _emima is looking at him again, her eyes so worried, and Marco can’t do anything._

 

_“I don’t know.”_

 

`

 

His body moves to the flow of the tide pouring through him, hands are out of his control like a puppet with invisible strings, Marco hates not being in control.

 

`

 

_Coughs wrack through Mami’s thin body, and her hands pause at the piano. Russo is sleeping soundly in his arms as he sits nexts to her on the bench, or Marco would reach out a hand to her._

 

_“Mami? What’s wrong?”_

 

_Turning to look at him for just a passing moment, her eyes are heavy and dull, and Marco is desperate for her to just tell him what’s wrong; tell him what he can do to make it all better._

 

_“Nothing is wrong, mio caro,” she says, and she resumes her melody, humming along as she plays. “Nothing is wrong.”_

 

_But Jemima is still frowning, even though when Mami plays she is usually so happy. Perched at Marco’s feet, Michael head laying in her lap, Jemima looks up at Marco, and with a sick feeling in his chest, Marco know that Mami is lying._

 

`

 

_The men have stopped coming to their house._

 

_Normally, Marco would be overjoyed, but their disappearance has also marked the disappearance of their food, and now Michael is feverish, and Mami cannot even find the strength to stand, and Marco doesn’t know what to do._

 

_But he’s a clever boy, has always prided himself on it._

 

_So he finds a way._

 

_Every day, hours before the sun even begins to shine, Marco leaves the house, and works. In a factory, with great wheels larger than he is grinding away and smoke filling his lungs with every breath, or letting people touch him, Marco is clever, and he finds a way._

 

_Jemima watches Russo while he’s away, caring for Mami and Michael, and when Marco comes home sometimes—after a bad day when a drunk man gets a little too angry or when one of the great machines explode and nearly knock him dead—she looks at him limping and hiding the ache in his bones with a smile, and starts crying._

 

_Marco comforts her ‘tranquillo, tranquillo,’ but he doesn’t even know what the words mean, and when he asks Mami she doesn’t even remember his name._

 

`

 

_“It’s me, Mami, I have some stew for you. Do you remember teaching me how to cook stew?”_

 

_“Russo? Mio angelo, is that you?”_

 

_“No, Mami, it’s Marco. I’ve gotten good at cooking, you know. Not as good as you, of course.”_

 

_“He was a gentleman, you know, through and through. ‘Bought me sunflowers and held my hand. You’re named for him, you know. It’s a royal name.”_

 

_“I know, Mami. Here, open up.”_

 

_“Mm. He said he would come back for me. I have the letter. He’s coming back for me.”_

 

_“Yes, Mami, I know. Now don’t spi- Let me clean that up for you.”_

 

_“Russo?”_

 

_“N-no, Mami, it’s Marco.”_

 

`

 

_“Michael, I brought you a treat! You know that honeycandy I bought you for your birthday? One of my friends from work gave one to me! Michael? M-Michael, what-? Michael!”_

 

`

 

_Jemima makes herself hoarse from screaming. She claws at Marco’s arms, but he won’t let her near Michael’s body lying on the floor; already she’s feverish from attending him and Mami for so long, he can’t let her be exposed to them anymore._

 

 _“Let me go, damn you, let me_ go _,” she screeches, and there are tears running down her cheeks and streaking through dirt caked there, Marco can’t help but feel like he has failed them all._

 

_He’s failed Jemima, who is cursing his name and slumped into his chest now, hacking a cough into his shirt and sobbing dryly, like she has no more tears to shed._

 

_He’s failed Russo, who is sitting outside and trying to mask the sound of his crying._

 

_He’s failed Mami, whose eyes are glazed over now, and whose every breath is ragged and heaves her chest with the effort they take._

 

_He’s failed Michael most of all. He’s failed Michael, who is (was) always so sweet and gentle and could let you know what he was thinking with just a touch and a smile. He’s failed Michael, who always makes (made) sure Jemima’s hair is just as beautiful as she is; done up in complicated plaits that none of them can even begin to fathom. He’s failed Michael, who is stiff and cold at his feet, and starting to smell._

 

`

 

_Jemima and Russo are waiting, but Marco just can’t bring himself to leave. His blistered and calloused hands are holding one of his mother’s—it feels so fragile in his hardened grip that Marco is afraid he’ll break it if he isn’t careful._

 

_Mami looks up just a little past him, and lifts up a hand. A smile loosens the harsh wrinkles in her forehead, and she says, “Russo, you came back.”_

 

_The relief in her voice is devastating._

 

_Marco forces down the ugly knot in his throat, and says “Yes, Mami. I-I came back to you.”_

 

_Her hand brushes his cheek. Marco can’t help but lean into the touch._

 

_“I knew you would. He’s coming for me, you know. Any day now, he’s coming-“_

 

_“Mami,” he chokes out as her body starts to go limp against his. “Mami, please don-“_

 

_She’s miserable. She wants to leave. Why should he beg her to stay when all that she wants to do, all she’s ever wanted to do, is leave?_

 

_“Yes, Mami, he’s coming for you. I can- I can see him right now, riding up the way on a- on a great big stallion from the Africas. He’s- he’s perfect, Mami.”_

 

_She hums. She knows._

 

_“Go to him.”_

 

_And she does._

 

`

 

A touch to the shoulder jolts Marco back into the present, and it’s only then that he realizes how his fingers ache, or how the strings are still ringing with the echo of his playing, or the tears on his cheeks.

 

“Marco, are you alright?”

 

He lifts his head, sees Eren, whose eyes are wide and scared and worried, and so open, and Marco’s voice shakes when he says, “It’s nothing, Eren; I’m fine.”

 

“Don’t lie,” Mikasa sniffs from his left, sitting herself gracefully next to him on the bench.

 

The floods recede, the paint dries on the walls, and the keys fade back to white as Armin and Eren join her—Eren plops himself right on Marco’s lap, Armin curls into his side.

 

“Then,” Marco says, because something needs to fill the silence now, to mask the acrid scent and the salty tracks branded on his skin, “what am I supposed to say?”

 

Armin hums, “You don’t have to say anything. Just play.”

 

And play Marco does.

 

`

 

For all the lessons that Marco has given him, Eren still clangs about on the keys like he expects them to turn on him at any moment. A clumsy scale in the key of A Major can no doubt be heard throughout the entire house, and Armin is looking very much at a loss _that isn’t how it’s done Eren let me show you again stop_ hurting _them_ —Marco’s heart is constricting in a way that should be painful but inexplicably isn’t, and he commits the scene to memory, from the sincere anxiety in Armin’s eyes to the lackadaisical grin Eren is wearing that reminds him why one of Erwin’s high-society ‘friends’ had emphatically described the boy as a ‘rapscallion.’ (Erwin’s deep laugh echoed off the marble floor and ‘I’m so glad that you noticed,’ as he clapped the poor man’s shoulder with the force of a small earthquake, and never had Marco seen anyone’s face turn such a brilliant red with pure rage.) Sitting in his lap, Mikasa is petting her doll’s hair very patiently (CoCo, he has to remind himself. She’s changed the name so many times, it’s hard to keep up with them all.), while Marco pets hers in turn—he prefers the phrase ‘combing with his fingers’; it makes him sound less she has him wrapped around her dainty little finger, because he’s felt that before and knows just how dangerous it can be.

 

“My ribbon is falling out,” she says absentmindedly, and immediately Marco begins threading the silky red fabric through his fingers.

 

 _Damn_.

 

And by the smugness in her impeccable posture, she _knows_.

 

“It doesn’t make sense!” Eren growls, turning to Marco with a glare, while Armin sinks his into his hands very dramatically.

 

 _“Help_ him, Marco,” Armin sighs feelingly. He did not pick that up from him, not at all.

 

“Eren,” Marco begins, pitching his voice just above its normal tambre, “what doesn’t make sense, exactly?” His fingers work deftly through the ribbon, knotting it loosely around the collar of Mikasa’s dress, and his inner monologue just consists of the word patience in a voice that sounds vaguely like Erwin’s.

 

Eren cries “Everything!” throwing his hands in the air, and Marco decides that he and Armin are not the only ones with a flair for the dramatic here. “Piano is stupid.”

 

“Oh? I disagree. It makes perfect sense to _me.”_  Sometimes it’s the only thing that does. “Why don’t you try again, but this time, play as we sing. Can you do that?”

 

He’s reluctant, Marco can tell from the tense hunch of his shoulders and the frown—Eren is always so expressive, both verbally and with his entire body, sometimes Marco wonders just how he can function with so many _feelings—_ taking up his entire face, but obediently, his hands fall back onto the keys. Marco smiles encouragingly, because Eren needs that kind of reassurance, he’s found.

 

“Very good, Eren. Ready? and play! _Fa sol la, fa sol la mi do_!* And down again; _do mi sol_ -“

 

Armin and Mikasa join in, their voices light and airy and so young, God so _young_ ;sometimes in their eyes he can see amber, and sometimes the pale blond of Armin’s hair deepens to honey-gold and their faces go gray and _there is nothing he can do nothing at all-_

 

The red of Mikasa’s ribbon reminds him of other things as it folds and twists inescapably around his fingers, staining them, but Marco ties the bow, looks at the three of them, and the ghosts flit back into the corners where they belong. They are not ghosts, he reminds himself furiously. They are alive and breathing and laughing and _singing._

 

Jemima and Michael and Mami and Russo _sweet_ _Russo you deserved none of this, Russo why didn’t it take me, it should have been me_ ; they are still his family, will never stop being his family. But families grow; souls come and make their home in your heart, and some leave—never permamently, they still haunt the halls and corridors and are always, always remembered—and new souls work their way into the woodwork and seep through the walls, no matter how many cracks you think you’ve sealed and halls you’ve cordoned off and left in the dark.

 

They’re singing random words now, solfege has never been something any of them have really come to grasp, and he finishes off Mikasa’s bow with a little tug at the fabric for security, and the dingy halls that make up his terrified heart are so full, full to bursting with how much he _feels_.

 

The key shifts into minor, no doubt Eren has forgotten the key needs sharps with how hard he’s laughing and with how his body _shakes_ from it, but for a hesitant moment, Marco allows himself to be happy with them, and he can’t find it in himself to even notice the dissonance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the sound-of-music-do-a-deer method of solfege was not very widespread during this time period, so they would have learned to sign solfege with the repeating _fa sol la_ and then _mi do_. just a bit of random music trivia for the curious, because i am a nerdlord.


	4. Chapitre Trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently they had been expecting him. And apparently Erwin has a lot more explaining to do than Marco had thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the length, the plot finally starts happening in this one and it can't be reasonably chopped in half.
> 
> take a look at the inspiration for this monstrosity by [chosenchu](http://thechosenchu.tumblr.com/post/124289607145/ive-been-watching-disney-movies-lately-so-here); look and weep over disney aus there.

A knock on Erwin’s study door. “Erwin? You—called me?”

 

“Is he there?” Armin whispers with the volume only children and stage actors posess.

 

Eren hisses, _“Sh,_ I _hear_ him.”

 

“Huh?” Armin leans into the door, puts his ear to it and frowns. “No you don’t. He’s not in there.”

 

“He _is!”_

 

“He is _not!”_

 

Marco sighs, bringing a hand to pinch at his brow. “Children-“

 

“Shut up you two,’ Mikasa says, pinching at both of her brothers’ arms and ignoring their pained yelps. He almost wants to intervene.

 

 

Shuffling feet and paper and a _thump_ that Marco tries very hard to ignore echo from inside the room until the handle turns and Erwin peeks around. He very nearly looks surprised to see them, and Marco very nearly sighs again.

 

“Ah! Children, you’re here. All of you. We—Come in, come in!”

 

Erwin herds them in with a flourish, stepping aside and bowing—Armin giggles, Mikasa bows back.

 

Erwin’s study is the first room of the manor that Marco remembers clearly, one of the few that he’s always felt _—comfortable_ in. Such a large, intimidating building, when he first came it was the largest he’d ever been inside, terrifying, but this room was—different. Tall curtains hiding bay windows and benches to hide from the world, the dark green settee who velvet cushions were overstuffed and lumpy but perfect for falling asleep on, the desk made of solid mahogany that, when Marco used to sit in there and read, always seemed to comfort him in its odd resemblance to Erwin—it exudes comfort and safety, and it draws Marco in like a moth to flame.

 

Over by the phonograph now, Erwin is humming to himself contentedly; Mikasa is in his arms, Eren bouncing eagerly at his side, and Armin is touching the pavillon reverently, running curious fingers over its scalloped edge, and Marco is quite sure that they’ve all forgotten what they came here for in the first place.

 

He coughs politely, approaches the four of them cautiously, doesn’t want to get swept into their hurricane of fascination quite yet—not until Erwin’s relayed whatever message he had. They barely notice, though Mikasa does murmur out a _‘bless you_.’

 

“Ah, Erwin..?”

 

A record is put on the phonograph—Marco instantly recognizes it, huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes. _Not this again_ —and his guardian hums questioningly, sparing Marco a glance and a raised eyebrow. Marco raises his in return.

 

“Sir, you called me. Was there something you needed, or-?”

 

 _“Marco,_ don’t talk, _Carmen_ is playing!”

 

So it is.

 

 _La Toreador_ rings strong and clear—if he concentrates, Marco thinks he can hear Grandmother in the chorus, ‘ _She did so love Carmen, almost as much as her dear cats; her favorite role she told me once, did you know that?_ ’—and Erwin breaks into dance, twirling Mikasa in his arms until she was clinging to him and _shaking_ with glee. Armin has his hands tightly wrapped around Eren’s, explaining with bright eyes the mechanisms in the phonograph, Eren listening on raptly, though by the furrow of his brow he’s struggling to understand a word of what’s being said to him.

 

Sometimes Marco loves them so much it makes his head spin.

 

“My Lord?”

 

From the hall a voice—familiar, but unexpected—and Marco nearly jumps out of his skin. Nile is standing in the doorway, staring ahead at an unfixed point, and looks decidedly—ruffled.

 

 _Ridiculous. Nile is_ never _ruffled._

 

When he’s stopped dancing, hugging Mikasa to his chest and red in the face, Erwin looks to Nile standing in the doorway and the grin spread across his face looks nearly painful it’s so wide.

 

“Nile! Yes, Nile, did you need somethi-?”

 

“My Lord, Master Ackerman is her-“

 

“Call me ‘ _MasterAckerman_ ’ one more time, shitface, see where that lands you.”

 

Oh. That explains it.

 

From behind Nile stomps in Monsieur Levi Ackerman—lawyer, veteran of the same Afghani war Erwin served in, and a very dear friend to him—and even annoyance he manages to make look graceful.

 

Erwin just laughs. _“There_ you are, Levi.”

 

Apparently they had been expecting him. And apparently Erwin has a lot more explaining to do than Marco had thought.

 

`

 

“What is he _doing_ here?!”

 

“I didn’t know you were so against Mr. Ackerman’s presence, Marco.” Nanaba says patiently from the oven, cracking veal bones over a boiling pot of vermicelli. He’s pacing almost frantically; Nanaba wishes that he would relax soon. The children are getting worried.

 

“I’m not—I’m— _not._ ” At least he’s making an _effort_ to calm down. “But—But Nanaba, I _know_ that something’s-“ Marco looks to Eren, staring up at him with interest, and deflates. “I’m just so _worried_ about him, Nanaba. I wish he would just tell me things like this. Does he know how much I worry?”

 

Oh for goodness’-

 

Nanaba hands the unbroken bone to Mikasa at her side and pulls Marco by the collar of his shirt out of the hole he’ll be soon wearing into the floor and sits him down at the table. “Marco Bodt,” she says, “I have served under your father—yes your _father,_ boy, it’s time you and he  _both_ admit that—for eighteen years. When you were younger than even Eren here, I was coming to know him, and for over ten of those years, I’ve watched you grow up here.

 

“Child, anyone who’s known you for any length of time will know you worry about that man, and you’re right to, because sometimes Erwin Smith can be too stubborn for his own good. But that’s a trait you seem to have inherited, god bless your soul.” Her hands grip iron at Marco’s shoulders. “The _last_ thing he would want you doing is worrying yourself to death over him. Do you understand? Marco—Marco, I want you to go outs into the garden. Take a nap. Read a book. Sit under that willow of yours, and _relax._ Will you do that for me? For him?”

 

For a second, Marco looks like he may just protest—like father, like son, though neither will call it that in so many words—but Nanaba’s glare must come across the way she intended, because he finally yields, slumping in the chair and sighing out “Yes, Nanaba.”

 

She straightens, smiles sweetly. “Good.”

 

Within five minutes Marco is banished from the house—Nanaba keeps an eye on him through the kitchen window, it gives her a perfect view of the garden—and as soon as he’s settled down beneath his favorite weeping willow—Eren bursts out into a fit of giggles. Soon all of them are laughing—Nanaba leans against the counter to support herself.

 

At length, Armin says, “Sometimes, you’re a little scary, Miss Nanaba.” He doesn’t seem frightened by the prospect. He seems impressed.

 

Nanaba smirks. “Why thank you, Armin.”

 

`

 

Mike Zacharias is an inherently loyal man. He knows this, as does anyone who has ever bothered to spend more than five minutes noticing in his presence—admittedly not many. But sometimes he looks at her—the way she wrinkles her nose when she’s thinking and the way her eyes always seem to speak even if her mouth isn’t and the way she rolls her eyes—and he thinks that he would let it all burn, if just to see Nanaba smile.

 

Standing in the kitchen doorway— _Lurking like some prowler in the doorway, you really are something, aren’t you? he berates himself_ —but Mike is _frozen,_ because Mike may never have gone to school for long—what he _does_ know is mostly stolen from Erwin and his early days when he fancied himself a charmer; before that godforsaken war and the way it reached in and scooped all that out of him—but he’s nearly certain that the word he’s looking for is _radiant._

 

Outside, looking in through the window, Mike watches as she minds the children, laughing when Armin splatters her face with flour.

 

He wants-

 

Well. He wants a lot of things.

 

Mike almost sighs— _sighs_ , like some lovestruck schoolboy—but in that moment, Nanaba looks up, her eyes meet his, and it chokes, splutters, and dies in his throat. He stands stock still. The bridle hanging limply from his hands _thank god_ suggest that he’d been attempting something profitable, but on the other hand, he’s in the middle of the garden, nearly ten paces away from the stable. The only reason Mike ever comes to the garden is to look at her.

 

Incriminated, he tells himself to _leave, run,_ anything _but just_ stand _there you dumb clot,_ but Nanaba is smiling, waving at him. Mike raises a hand to wave back—aborts that thought halfway through.

 

 _‘Come in’,_ she mouths, motioning to the kitchen door.

 

Mike blinks. _‘Me?’_

 

A laugh. Nanaba turns from the window for a moment. Mike’s grip on the bridle tightens—leathers twists under his hands. A moment later, the kitchen door inches open, weathered hinges screaming at the movement, and when little Eren pops his head through the doorway he’s wincing and casting nervous glances in the direction of the willow. Mike sees Armin standing close behind him, his eyes flitting about until they catch on _him_ , and widen almost comically. He grins at the kid. Armin doesn’t grin back. He squeaks loud enough for Mike to hear and dives back into the kitchen.

 

When Eren has fully emerged, Mikasa following shortly, Mike finally gathers his courage— _whatever he has_ left—and strides over. At the door, Eren lingers, and Mike ruffles his hair before stepping inside, clicking it shut behind him and muffling stifled cries of outrage.

 

“He’ll never forgive you, you know.” Nanaba’s voice is—very pretty. Sometimes Mike desperately wishes his vocabulary was flowerier.

 

“I don’t know about that,” he says. “He doesn’t strike me as the vengeful type.”

  
She laughs, high and light. “You may have to bribe him, Mr. Zacharias; I’m afraid our little Eren can be very stubborn when he wants to be—Oh. Oh, I didn’t realize you were working, I’m sorry.”

 

Mike says, “What?” because the evening sun is catching off of her hair, short waves gleaming darker than their normal yellow, and he’s staring _very rudely_ , but she’s staring right back.

 

“Oh, well,” Nanaba gestures vaguely to Mike’s hands. He has to look down at them to remember what exactly it is he’s holding. “the bridle. I assumed—assumed that you were—that I interrupted your work.“

 

“You didn’t! You—didn’t, really-“

 

“Macarons.”

 

For the first time, Mike notices Armin, sitting painfully straight-backed on the counter and wringing his hands. He also notices just how close he and Nanaba are. Just close enough to touch. He pulls away, coughing and crossing his arms over his chest—rather difficult while carrying the bridle, but he’s made the gesture now, and to abort it is too late now.

 

“What was that, Armin?” Mike asks, with maybe a touch more interest than he feels. He pointedly avoids Nanaba’s eyes as she drifts back over to the stove.

 

When Armin looks at him, in his eyes it is painfully clear that he knows _exactly_ what Mike is trying to do, and that he isn’t going to rat Mike out but he may question his faith in his wooing. Another way in which he resembles Erwin—a thought that does not hold much pleasure for Mike, and far too much for Erwin.

 

“Well,” the boy begins carefully, “if you’re going to bribe Eren, you’ll need macarons. He doesn’t much care for anything other than food, and they’re his favorites.”

 

Nanaba’s laugh again. “Well there you have it, Mr. Zacharias. Shall I make you some macarons, to fully gain back his forgiveness?”

 

“That depends.” Mike leans up against the counter, grins and nudges at Armin in a show of solidarity. “Do we get to have a taste? Not to steal them away, of course, but to, ah-“

 

“To test them!” Armin finishes, his expression reserved excitement. “Make sure they’re up to Eren’s standards.”

 

Nanaba nods in agreement from where she’s stirring something—the night’s dinner, he’ll imagine. “I hear they’re very high.”

 

“Exactly. Wouldn’t want to offend the young master all over again, have his sweets not be up to snuff.”

 

Raising an eyebrow, she turns to look him in the eye, wearing a wicked, wicked grin. “Why Mr. Zacharias, exactly what are you implying? Are you insulting my capabilities as a chef? Because I will have you know, I once wrangled a compliment from _Mr. Ackerman_.”

 

Mike had a grin of his own. “Not at all, Miss Nanaba. But you know, that soufflé last week—it _was_ a little flat…”

 

“You ungrateful scoundrel-“

 

Their playful teasing is cut short when, down the hall, the crisp footfalls of Mr. Dok echo off the walls, along with it wafting the scent of furniture polish and bitter lemons. Armin slips from the counter, scampering out of sight before he arrives in the kitchen in his deadpan glory.

 

Mike feels himself being scanned by that cold eye, like Mr. Dok can see him inside and out, and represses a shiver.

 

“Mr. Zacharias.” His name is spoken with a familiar formality and a sense of detachment that used to drive him mad—still does if he lets it. “What an odd pleasure, seeing you in here at this hour.”

 

The skin on the back of Mike’s neck pricks, and he can _feel_ Nanaba tensing from across the room. There’s something in the words, in the way that those eyes look carefully from him to Nanaba carefully that implies _something_ , and Mike feels his hands tightening. A clipped smile, lazy and dangerous rises to his lips.

 

“I could almost say the same to you, Mr. Dok,” he says casually.

 

All he receives in return is a raised eyebrow and eyes burrowing even _deeper._

 

Mike doesn’t move.

 

Silence reigns the room.

 

Mr. Dok’s jaw is very tight when he finally deems to move. He walks very intentionally over to the pipelines running up the wall, and begins—fiddling with it.

 

“Hey,” Mike makes to protest, eyes narrowing. “What are you-“

 

“Hush,” is all Mr. Dok says.

 

In another moment, something creaks in the wall, like the squeaking of old hinges, and voices are filling the room— _not_ the voices of anyone present.

 

`

 

_‘…over, do you want to go over the beneficiaries?’_

 

Their voices are tinny, distant, but Nile can hear the words clearly; Erwin’s lawyer friend, he can easily identify the derisive, disinterested tone. Why Erwin insists on keeping in contact with such an unsavory character Nile doesn’t think he will ever know.

 

The stable-worker and the chef both are staring at the pipe in shock. They _are_ a complication.

 

No matter. He is adept at dealing with loose ends.

 

_‘Finally, a word I understand. Yes, let’s.’_

_‘Shove it, we both know you know just as much of this legal jargon as I do.’_

_‘Mm, maybe. What, Levi, are you thinking of making me your partner?’_

 

A snort. _‘Please. I haven’t lost a client yet, and I don’t intend to.’_

_‘What a cutting insinuation, Levi. And here I was thinking we were friends.’_

_‘Right now, I’m you lawyer, Lord Smith. Wanna let me do my job?’_

_‘Yes, yes. Where were we?’_

_‘…The beneficiaries.’_

_‘Oh, well that’s easy. The children will receive all of my personal wealth; the manor. I leave Marco in sole ownership, of course, until his siblings all have reached adulthood, upon which time they will possess it jointly.’_

_‘Your funeral, Commander. Literally, in this case.’_

_‘I see your bedside manner hasn’t improved over the years, Levi. And—please don’t call me Commander.’_

_‘And it never will. That’s—covered. What about the company?’_

_‘That will go to Marco; should he not wish to have it, he can pass it on to the members of the board until one of his siblings or their family lays a claim.’_

_‘What about the esta-‘_

 

“That’s _enough_ of that.”

 

Miss Nanaba shoves Nile aside from the pipeline, standing on her toes and wrenching it closed before he can hear any more.

 

Not that it matter.

 

Nile has heard enough.

 

He makes to leave, but she grabs at his arm as he turns, pokes him in the chest roughly.

 

“What the _hell_ was all that about?!”

 

Training his face to remain calm—it would not do to properly reprimand Miss Nanaba for her impudence at this time, not with her brainless admirer so close at hand—Nile says, “I do believe that we both know the answer to that, don’t we, Miss Nanaba?”

 

“I don’t think we _do_ , Mr. Dok _sir_.”

 

The gentle giant deems to speak. How delightful.

 

Still, when he looms, the man casts a formidable shadow, and as Nile is now pressed against the wine cellar door, he deems that now would not be the most opportune moment to express his opinions, though he doubts they would be fully understood in the present company in any case.

 

“There’s no need for anger, Mr. Zacharias,” Nile says coolly, removing Miss Nanaba’s sharp finger from where it is still digging into his chest. “Simply because you cannot grasp the rather simple concepts at hand.”

 

Ah. It seems he’s let his tongue get the better of him. How can it be helped, though, when the man makes for such an easy target?

 

Mr. Zacharias makes as if to strike him, raising a large fist with a growl low in his throat—particularly animal in nature, Nile holds—but he is saved from the foolishness—he was expecting it; Nile hasn’t even blinked yet—by Miss Nanaba, simply raising her hand and saying quite forcefully, “Mike, _don’t_.”

 

It takes a moment, but eventually the lumbering mass finally steps aside, and Nile’s exit is secured.

 

He makes no pause on his way out, but over his shoulder, Nile can’t resist throwing the taunt, “Thank you for calling off your dog, Miss Nanaba. I would so hate to have to call the pound.”

 

The growl that follows is music to Nile’s ears.

 

`

 

Marco wakes, shifts off of the root he fell asleep on, and wonders if he’s ever been so tired.

 

Then again, he hasn’t ever been stupid enough to take a nap underneath a tree before; now he knows why he never made the practice a habit; his back is moaning in protests all its own.

 

“Eren—Eren, that is _not_ a good idea-“

 

“Oh come _on_ Mikasa, I’m not gonna fall _ah-!”_

 

“Eren!”

 

Marco jerks up—pulls a muscle in his neck, _Mary_ —instantly alert, already scrambling in the direction of the cry. Not two paces away Eren is huddled on the ground, Mikasa hovering over him with a look of unadulterated _terror_ , and Marco fears the worst, gently tugs her away so that he can look, brushes hair and dirt and tears from Eren’s eyes and coos gently _don’t worry him, don’t worry him, if you sound scared_ he'll _be scared-_

 

“Eren, angel—Eren, look at me.”

 

The boy whimpers, but obediently his eyes flit to Marco’s, tearing up but resolutely _not_ crying, the stubborn thing. Marco smiles wetly.

 

“There we go, see? Just look at me, it’s alright.”

 

Marco hears the kitchen door open, hears Nanaba cry out in worry, but makes no move to show he’s heard, focuses entirely on Eren.

 

“Tell me what hurts, Eren, can you tell me what hurts?”

 

At his shoulder, Mikasa, standing stock still, whispers, “He’s covering his ankle.”

 

Marco looks to her, to Eren, to her, then takes a closer look at Eren’s hands, and so he is. Gentle coaxing ( _‘Russo, baby, it’s okay, don’t cry, I promise you’ll be alright’_ ) and even gentler hands prodding until Eren can finally be convinced to move his hands, and when he does there’s _red_ -

 

It’s a scratch. Marco takes a moment, draws in a breath and allows himself to feel <i>ecstatic</i> for a moment because it’s just a _scratch_ —bloody and painful, absolutely, but no larger than Marco’s little finger. Mikasa’s slumped against his shoulder, letting out a small sigh.

 

Eren, on the other hand, is still sniffling very bravely, not looking at his leg very purposely.

 

“Marco?” he whispers very heartbreakingly worried. “’re you gonna have to chop it off?”

 

Marco holds back a laugh of pure hysteria.

 

“No, Eren. I think you’re going to be just fine.”

 

“Oh. Still hurts, though.”

 

Pulling the boy into his lap, Marco pet his hair. “I’m sure it _does._ What were you doing anyway, to make you fall like that?”

 

He swears he hears Mikasa mutter “I <i>told</i> you so.” Meanwhile Eren doesn’t seem very keen on answering.

 

“ _Well_ …”

 

`

 

Of all the excellent hiding places in Erwin’s big house, Armin’s favorite by far is in the kitchen. He’s fairly certain he’s the only one who _knows_ about it, really. It’s certainly won him many a game of hide-and-go-seek, that’s for sure.

 

It’s a slip in the wall, hidden behind the shadow of cupboards and just the right size for someone Armin’s size, a chink in the kitchen’s crème paneling unnoticed by anyone walking by. He found it one day when he was feeling very small. Ever since, it’s been his favorite place. A place just for him, where Armin can be alone. He’s _wanted_ to tell his siblings about it, feels guilty keeping _anything_ from Marco and Mikasa and Eren, but in his entire life there have been so few things that have been his own; Armin knows it might be awful of him, but he just wants to keep that illusion for as long as he can.

 

When he hears the feet in the hall, Armin runs. It’s second nature now. Turn the corner, slip inside, curl into a ball; listen.

 

They argue.

 

Armin hates it so much when people argue.

 

But then Mr. Mike, Miss Nanaba, they _leave_ ; Armin is alone in his hiding place with Mr. Dok and very afraid.

 

Mr. Dok is quiet, but Armin is quieter. It’s a standoff, and of course Armin decides he needs to pee.

 

 

No he _doesn’t._

 

Yes, yes he does. Armin thinks a couple of those curse words Mr. Ackerman likes saying.

 

Armin thinks he holds out for a very reasonable time.

 

He decides to sneak past Mr. Dok.

 

If he gets caught, Mr. Dok will _know_ that he heard their argument. But Armin has to _go_. Eren’s gonna love this story.

 

On second thought, Eren is never ever _ever_ going to know about this.

 

He gathers up his courage. He slinks out of his hiding place, hides just behind the cupboards, gets a glimpse of Mr. Dok, standing in Miss Nanaba’s place in front of the stove. What is Mr. Dok doing _there_?

 

The door creaked. Voices are outside. Both Armin’s and Mr. Dok’s eyes snap over to the door.

 

Mr. Dok _leaves_. He puts his hand into his pocket, leaves the kitchen and walks out of the kitchen and into the hallway very—fast.

 

The door opens. Marco is carrying Eren, Mikasa is following right behind. Armin forgets all about Mr. Dok.

 

“Marco! You’re awake!”

 

`

 

Erwin stretches, leans back in his desk chair and yawns long and loud. Outside the window, the world is dark; his reflection stares back at him in the glass.

 

“Levi, I think it’s about time you and I broke for the night. Do you?”

 

“ _God_ ,” Levi sighs, setting down his fountain pen and rubbing at his hands. “I thought you’d never ask. You have a chef, right? Is dinner ready?”

 

Erwin laughs. “At this hour? I would imagine dinner was ready hours ago. Let’s go see if they left anything for you and me, shall we?”

 

Levi grunts, gestures vaguely as if to say “You first, _sir_ ,” and there’s a shadow of a grin on his lips. Erwin’s missed that grin. He stands, begins leading the way to the kitchens, and Levi points out the _hideous_ amount of dust on the banister and the _disgusting_ color of the drapes, Smith, here I was thinking you were _rich_.

 

The house is so still when the children are in bed—Erwin assumes, _hopes_ Marco tucked them in some time ago; they’ll be so very exhausted otherwise. He can’t help but wonder if Mike remembered to feed Frou-Frou extra bran today for behaving so well when Eren drove her. Then he laughs, shakes his head. Of course Mike remembered. He treats that horse like one of the family.

 

If Levi was annoyed by the bannister and the drapes, he’s _livid_ over the stairs down to the kitchen.

 

“I swear I will _make_ you get a housekeeper one of these days; this is absolutely _pathetic_.”

 

Rounding the hall into the kitchen, Erwin replies, “If you’re so eager to provide the service, Levi, I’m always open to-“

 

Well this is an odd sight.

 

“What the hell?” Levi says, and Erwin thinks that sums it up nicely. Five bowls lie on the table, one pitched over and its contents sloshed over the side, the mess left uncleaned and drying crusty on the wood there. The rest are nearly full. Erwin dips his finger into a bowl.

 

 

How long-?

 

Where is-?

 

Erwin freezes.

 

The children. Where are the children.

 

“Marco?” he yells, a tiny bubble of panic popping in his chest. If anyone <i>had</i> been sleeping, they won’t be for long, but at the moment Erwin doesn’t particularly care.

 

No answer.

 

“Marco? Mike, can you hear me?”

 

Erwin had forgotten he could move this fast. Erwin had forgotten he could feel this _terrified_.

 

“Nanaba, Nile, anyone, _answer_ me!”

 

He’s climbed the stairs three at a time, he’s standing outside their rooms. Their doors are closed. Their doors are never closed; Marco leaves them open; they’re afraid of the dark.

 

Oh god. Oh god, _please_ , anything but them. The manor, the money, the company, _anything_ but them-

 

Erwin’s hands are shaking when he opens Mikasa’s door.

 

Oh god.

 

Every door in the hall he checks once, twice, nearly four times until Levi takes his arm and says, “Erwin. Stop.”

 

His shoulders are shaking, Erwin’s entire being is _humming_ with a refrain of _This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, please not them this can’t be happening._

 

The words taste like vinegar on his tongue.

 

“They’re gone.”


End file.
